


Dawn

by perihadion



Series: Chiaroscuro [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 17:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15005669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perihadion/pseuds/perihadion
Summary: After weeks of waiting for news of Illya's defection, Gaby receives an important mission from Waverly.





	Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this along with the penultimate part, "Dusk", just a heads up in case you want to read things in order and missed it!

I’m coming home, I’m coming home  
to make it all right so dry your eyes

Thom Yorke, “Harrowdown Hill”

*

The debriefing with Waverly after New York had been standard, except that Gaby felt like she heard an almost imperceptible overtone when he asked, “Nothing else to report?’

She shook her head, “No. Nothing.” Exactly when did she start lying to Waverly’s face? It probably started soon after U.N.C.L.E. disbanded and they returned to MI6. That first day, when he asked how she was, and she said, “Same as usual.” That was when the brazen lies began. He must expect it from her by now.

It was difficult to let Solo and Illya take the lead. Waverly had brought the three of them together in the first place; she had asked herself many times whether to brief him on the situation; she had questioned as many times why they didn’t make the approach themselves. But she understood that they all made complex decisions about who to trust and for good reasons. Illya had trusted her. To tell Waverly would be a breach of that trust. It was his decision. Logically, rationally, it was the correct decision. The fewer people knew about a secret the safer the secret was. But he had been neither logical nor rational in telling her. The more she thought about it, the more she realised he had taken an incredible, stupid risk to get the message to her.

What if that got him killed?

Days, weeks passed and she heard nothing and knew nothing.

It was frustrating. Once they had learned she was also a spy they had never seemed to forget it until now. It bothered her. But, she supposed, this was a function of the fact that U.N.C.L.E. no longer existed. How could she and Waverly be involved with what was — she assumed — a CIA operation?

Maybe if it were of less personal importance to her she would have inserted herself into it anyway. But the thought of tipping a delicate balance — if something went wrong, how could she live with it?

She threw herself into her work, accepting mission after mission. She came close to losing her own life more than once. Anything to distract, to make her feel alive, to make her feel anything, until she went home and drank until she felt numb, until she felt nothing. These were the two domains she inhabited: blazing, electrified, and withdrawn, hollowed-out. Nothing in-between: we don’t live in the in-between space of normal life. She would watch people milling through the streets of London and wonder which of them were living secret lives like hers, outwardly normal, and yet complex and dangerous and half-hidden.

One morning Waverly invited her into his office unexpectedly and shut the door. He sat behind his desk, indicating that she should also take a seat, and then looked at his computer for a moment in silence. Eventually he took a deep breath and said, “There has been a rather interesting development.”

Gaby felt every muscle in her body contract.

He rubbed the back of his head. “I’m not quite sure how to approach this. The head of the CIA has been in contact with me. It appears that they have taken a KGB operative into custody. Or, rather, that he surrendered. Obviously they wouldn’t typically discuss this with foreign agencies but, well, it appears that he has ties to MI6, or —”

He caught her eye; she had been staring intently at him. “— well, more specifically, ties to MI6 through a now-defunct international intelligence agency formerly known as U.N.C.L.E.”

She remained silent, unsure how to respond. Waverly’s use of the present tense was reassuring. Beyond that she wanted to ask: what is happening? Why are you telling me? But it was exactly because she didn’t know the answer to either of these questions that she couldn’t ask.

“Of course,” Waverly said, “you realise that I am talking about Kuryakin.”

She nodded.

He licked his lips. “They believe he may be attempting infiltration as a double agent. In fact, they think he may have even been a double agent when he worked for U.N.C.L.E., and they have requested our help in determining the truth. Obviously, if they believe he is a double-agent the consequences for him will be quite dire. On the other hand, if he is not, they would very much like to know that they can trust his intelligence.”

“Waverly —” she began, and he nodded her to continue, but this was hard. “I think you know — I think you realise that I can’t be entirely objective here.”

He smiled sadly.

“I mean, because I grew to consider him my friend, … back then.”

“Yes,” Waverly said, “yes, I do remember the two of you grew to be very close friends. But don’t worry, Miss Teller. I wasn’t going to assign you this investigation. I just, well — I just thought that you should know. On account of your close friendship.” He caught her eye meaningfully.

She nodded again. Her mouth was dry. “Yes. Thank you, Waverly. Is that all?”

He nodded, and dismissed her.

After leaving his office she walked briskly to the nearest women’s bathroom and locked herself in a stall. And then she broke down. He had really done it, and now they all had to live with the consequences. You idiot, she thought. You could have stayed alive with the KGB. Now the CIA are going to kill you.

But he had made it. He was in America, in CIA custody. He had managed to flee the KGB to, well, to probably the one place with the highest concentration of KGB agents in the world. But Waverly knew; Waverly, she felt sure, was going to advocate on his behalf. She knew that the Americans found Waverly ridiculous, and underestimated him, but nobody could argue with his record. Waverly would find a way to help Illya. He had to.

She had seen the interrogation manuals, of course. Solo had produced copies for her. “Crazy isn’t it?” he had said, “We talk a big game about the brutality of the Soviets. But this psychological stuff we’re doing?” He had just shaken his head, and left it at that.

Where was Illya now? she wondered. The thought of him stripped naked, in a dark, silent room was unbearable. What were they doing to him? What did they want to know?

*  
  
Waverly asked her to take administrative leave. “Given recent events I think it is a good idea for you to get some fresh air,” he had said. “Clear your head.”

“And do what?” she had demanded.

“Clever girl like you,” he had responded cheerily. “I’m sure you’ll find something.” There was no arguing with him.

She had been climbing the walls by the third day; then she received a phone call instructing her to be at a specified location in Hyde Park at 3 o’clock in the afternoon that day. There, she received a brown envelope containing instructions from Waverly. It was an extraction and, if successful, recruitment mission.

*

Less than a day later, she was in Maryland.

This wasn’t the type of mission that she was used to, nor one that was entirely congruent with her skillset — while her slight stature and dancer’s coordination and athleticism made her an ideal candidate for stealth work, her anxious disposition had always made it challenging — but she understood why Waverly had entrusted it to her. The main thing was to get into the building: their understanding was that while the exterior was relatively heavily-guarded, at night there was a minimal staff. If she could get past the perimeter to get in the hardest part of the job was over — at least until she had to get back past it on the way out, with a mark whose physical condition was as yet undetermined.

She practised the tactical breathing she had been taught at the agency to steel her nerves. Count four in, count four hold, count four out. She felt focus and clarity settle into her muscles. Carefully, she scaled the perimeter fence, keeping the map of the facility which she had painstakingly memorised and what she had learned about the guards’ movements in mind as she dodged from cover to cover. Reaching her target door, she reached into her inner pocket for her lock-pick tools when she felt a hand cover her mouth and someone pull her into their arms from behind.

She struggled against him, but his arm hand remained firm over her mouth. “Shut up,” he whispered in her ear, and something deep inside her unfurled in recognition. “Are you going to be quiet?” he asked, and she nodded. He released her, and she turned to face her assailant.

“Solo,” she mouthed, and he pulled her into a hug. He pointed at the door, and she nodded. He quickly picked the locks and let them in, closing the door carefully behind them and falling against it in relief. It was a moment before he opened his eyes and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“The same as you,” she said, “I think.”

He nodded. “How did you know?”

“Waverly sent me,” she said. “They informed him because of the connection to U.N.C.L.E.”

“Jesus,” he said. “None of this makes any sense — but let’s get moving.”

She nodded. Mission first, explanation later.

Their intelligence had been correct. It seemed that overnight the facility was manned by a skeleton staff who clearly did not expect visitors — and why would they? They were at a secret CIA torture facility in the middle of rural Maryland that technically did not exist. The only intruders they ever had to deal with were people who ended up there by accident and were only too happy to turn around and leave the way they came. It was easy to dodge through corridors and down stairs until they reached the holding cells.

Gaby counted doors as they passed them, wondering how many were occupied. Did anyone here deserve the treatment they were receiving? Probably not. But this wasn’t a rescue mission. It was an extraction. They weren’t here to save people.

They reached Illya’s cell, and Solo quietly broke the lock.

He was curled up on the floor of the small, cold room, naked and shivering. Gaby put her hand over her mouth. There were no marks on his body, but that was to be expected. The CIA favoured methods that left no mark. Extreme heat. Extreme cold. Sensory deprivation. No in-between spaces.

Solo, gently put a hand on his shoulder, whispering, “Hey, buddy.”

“Cowboy?” was the confused response, and Solo put a finger to his lips, indicating Gaby. Illya looked at her, and Gaby’s heart broke. She knelt beside him, and pressed her forehead to his. They worked quickly, pulling the clothes she had brought onto Illya and giving him water before hoisting him up.

“Can you walk okay?” Solo asked, and Illya nodded, though he allowed Solo to support him as they left the cell. After a few steps, he was steadier, and the three of them were able to break into a jog back through the facility.

“How long before they notice?” Solo asked.

Illya responded, “Few hours maybe. Maybe more. Hard to tell time.”

He grabbed Gaby, who was a few steps ahead, and pulled her back in time to remove her from what would have been the line of sight of a guard turning the corner. The three of them shrank back into the shadows until the danger had passed.

“Nice reflexes,” Solo observed. Illya shrugged.  


“I heard his footsteps.”

Being trapped in a soundproof box will do wonders for your hearing, Gaby thought.

Solo led them to a hole he had cut into the fence and then Gaby took the lead, guiding them through the countryside to a safe house — more of a safe shack — Waverly had indicated to her. “This should be safe,” she said; still, they tossed the place for bugs.

There was a kettle, and some canned foods. Nothing particularly appetising, but Illya ate as if he hadn’t seen food before in his life.

“Explain the Waverly connection to me,” Solo asked Gaby. She shrugged.

“I don’t understand it myself. He told me the CIA had contacted him about Illya. They assumed he was trying to infiltrate the agency and wanted him to investigate given our previous association. A few days later, he gives me this mission.” She nodded at Illya. “He wants me to recruit him to MI6.”

“Consider me recruited,” Illya said. They turned to face him. He smiled wrily. “I don’t think I want to be CIA agent any more.” He made a gesture, “Totally turned off from whole idea. MI6 much better fit.”

Gaby found herself laughing despite herself. She put her hand over her mouth and sank to the floor, and then she was sobbing, her hands over her hot, wet face. Someone put his arms around her, hands cradling her head, and rocking her. She grabbed at his sweater. “Is okay, Gaby,” Illya whispered.

She nodded, swallowing down tears. “I know,” she put her arms around him and balled his sweater up in her fists. “That’s why I can’t stop crying.” She breathed slowly, four in, hold, four out, hold. Illya kissed her forehead, and released her. “Sorry,” she said.

Solo made a dismissive gesture, “Don’t worry about it.” He frowned, then sighed, and addressed Gaby. “You know that nearly everything you just said is bullshit, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“What Waverly told you. Look, the CIA didn’t contact MI6. I know these guys. They wouldn’t do it. If they thought our boy here was a double agent they’d keep that to themselves and milk it for all it was worth. I think Waverly has a mole.”

She thought about what he said, then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The end result is the same.”

Solo seemed to consider that. But Illya was staring at Solo. It seemed to take a moment for Solo to notice; eventually he caught Illya’s glare, and recoiled reflexively, then made a puzzled expression. Illya pointed at him. “I think you are mole.”

Solo threw his hands up and stepped back, “Hold on.”

“Really,” Illya said, “I think you are double agent for MI6.”

Gaby looked from Solo to Illya and then thought: no, not for MI6. For U.N.C.L.E.

Solo looked sidelong at Illya, and then said, “I can neither confirm nor deny. But, like Gaby said, it doesn’t matter.”

Illya made a move as if to step forward and Gaby put a hand on his arm, “Right, it doesn’t matter.” Illya looked askance at her, and she smiled. “The main thing is we got you here.” He nodded. He looked totally fucking exhausted.

“Okay, well,” Solo began. “I should be leaving.” At Gaby’s expression, “I’m not supposed to be here. If I don’t rendezvous with my handler in six hours I’ll end up in one of those cells. Besides, I’m sure Waverly has organised extraction only for two people. Since he has no idea that I am here. Nor could he _possibly_ know that.”

He took a few steps towards the door and then paused. “I nearly forgot,” he said, “go long, Peril —” and tossed something to Illya. Illya looked down into his hands: his father’s watch. Solo was already gone when he looked up again.

*

There were only two single cots in the shack. “Fucking Waverly,” Gaby said out loud, and pushed them together. Illya watched from the doorway as she arranged the pillows and blankets to try to minimise the dip between them, so they could sleep together in something like a bed. She smiled at him. “Not as nice as that hotel in Rome, I know. But I’ve had worse.”

He nodded. She walked up to him, playfully, play-acting that first night they had spent together. She took his hand, and danced backwards towards the ‘bed’, pulling him with her. She made him sit down on the side of it, and stood over him, looking down, finally in a position to make a full assessment. He looked okay, on the outside. She brushed his hair back and kissed his forehead.

He brought his arms up, and wrapped them around her waist, pulling her in to him and burying his face in her sweater.

“Was it worth it?” she said, quietly.

He looked up at her, his cheeks wet. She knew he didn’t have the words to answer; but that was okay: he didn’t need to say it. She knew. She leant down and kissed him, lacing her fingers through his hair, running her thumb down his cheek. She took his clothes off him as slowly now as she had pulled them on earlier that night, checking his body all over for cuts and bruises — but there were none. That wasn’t the way the CIA did things. Still, she kissed all of his older scars — the familiar constellations of Illya, and then she climbed into bed with him and he held her tight.

“You were right,” she said, just before she fell asleep.

“About what?” he asked.

She pulled the blanket up around them. “We are going to be okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> The song “Harrowdown Hill” is about the death of British whistleblower Dr. David Kelly, who at the time of his death was under intense government scrutiny and is believed to have taken his own life in response to this pressure (although there are conflicting ideas about what happened to him, with some medical experts challenging the official cause of death, and the level of culpability of the Ministry of Defence). I was hesitant about appropriating it for fic and trivialising this very real and serious event but — I don’t know. Without getting too personal part of the reason I write anything at all is to explore the complicated feelings I have about real-world stuff and even though it’s just fic and maybe kind of trivial this is one of the events that has been on my mind while writing and thinking about all the things governments do that we don't necessarily hear about until years later, if at all (for example, a lot of the details of the CIA's history of torture and their human experimentation programmes have only come to light in the past 10-20 years). So, yeah. I went with it.
> 
> Also, I think this is more-or-less the ending of this series, although I may write a plot-light coda or epilogue just to tie things up nicely for everyone involved.


End file.
